Petunia flinched awkwardly and knocked the magic candle off with her elbow.
It fell from the windowsill with a loud thud and rolled under the bed, and that corner of the cottage immediately became darker.
Flustered, not knowing what to do — retrieve her sister’s gift or keep watching — Petunia pulled back from the window for a moment, and when she pressed her face to it again, there was no one on the porch.
She held her breath and pressed tightly against the window, trying to see as much as possible, but didn’t see anything.
And just as she exhaled, feeling a wave of relief that this horror was finally over, a black, formless blot appeared outside the window, pressing against it from the other side.
It opened a mouth full of teeth as sharp as a shark’s and hissed: “I can hear you.” Petunia recoiled with a scream, fell right onto the corpse lying in the bed, and buried her face in the folds of the blanket.
She lay face down, presenting her defenseless back, trembling in terror, expecting claws and teeth to sink into her at any moment.
But time passed.
In the silence that filled the little house, the tick of the second hand, steadily measuring the passage of time, was especially loud.
Each click, counting off the seconds, rang out like thunder, and surely all the nearby monsters could hear it clearly.
But no claws or teeth were in a hurry to sink into her flesh.
Petunia stirred.
It was uncomfortable to keep lying like that, and she was running out of air.
She slowly raised herself, looked around — the cottage was empty, the fire was still burning in the hearth, the book lay on the table.
Warily approaching the window, she cautiously peered out, expecting the creature to appear again at any moment, but — nothing.
Nothing and no one.
There wasn’t a soul outside.
She exhaled and slid down to the floor, leaning her back against the bed.
And she sat there for a while, listening to the alarm clock ticking.
The steady ticking of the hands calmed her.
She got up awkwardly, treated her bleeding knees and bitten lip.
The scrapes stung from the soap and water, but that was even good; it distracted from the terror she had experienced and allowed her to focus on the main thing.
What was that?!
The ghost continued to play dead, remaining motionless and lifeless, as if he hadn’t been shaking and trembling recently.
Petunia remembered that the fit had started just when “Mr.
Cory” had appeared on the porch, and she immediately understood that the ghost had protected her that way.
Otherwise — frightened, she would definitely have opened the door to a familiar person.
Her voice wasn’t working yet, so she silently mouthed “thank you.” Then she looked under the bed, where the magic candle had rolled.
She had to go to the pantry for a rake to hook the bottle that had rolled into the far corner and pull it toward her.
Fortunately, it wasn’t broken.
Lily, when giving her “lantern,” had insisted that the flame would burn forever and that the jar itself was enchanted to be unbreakable.
Petunia sighed and placed the candle on the floor, at the foot of the bed.
Now she needed the window to see who would come to her next.
And that there would be a next visit, she had almost no doubt.
Even though she had stopped reading fairy tales after Lily left for her school and had focused on more realistic literature, much of what she had read, if not all, was still remembered clearly and in detail.
They had a big book of fairy tales from around the world, and among them, among other things, were several stories about heroes encountering the supernatural.
And in almost all cases, the number three was repeated often.
The hero spent three nights keeping vigil by the coffin or at the grave.
The supernatural knocked on the door three times.
The witch instructed the hero to speak the magic words three times to open the path.
And if a father outfitted his son with boots, the son couldn’t reach his goal without first wearing out three pairs.
Petunia spread her fingers and began to bend them one by one.
It turned out that the fake “Mr.
Cory” had called to her — when she was reading, when she fell, and when she was looking out the window — exactly three times!
And then disappeared.
“So what does that mean…” Petunia glanced back at the fire in the hearth.
It had been quite quiet since the beginning of the night — the flames were small, barely enough to keep the fire from going out — and at the moment when Petunia had almost let something unknown into the house, it hadn’t shown itself at all.
And she had gotten used to always being able to rely on the magical fire!
So she didn’t share her suspicions out loud.
But that she had to endure two more visits, she was somehow absolutely certain of.
Time passed slowly.
The little hand of the alarm clock was only showing half past twelve.
Hardly any time had passed since the ghost had fallen asleep, and there were at least five hours until dawn, maybe more.
And there was nothing to occupy herself with.
She didn’t feel like reading.
Petunia tried to pick up the book but caught herself expecting a knock on the door every second, getting distracted, and not understanding these letters at all.
In short, she put the book aside.
Then she tried walking — there wasn’t enough space; she did a few exercises — but only irritated her wounded knees more.
Finally, she settled on reciting poetry.
All she could remember.
Starting with Shakespeare’s monologues and ending with Kipling’s ballads.
And so, when she had gotten halfway through “The Ballad of East and West,” a pop came from outside, like a balloon bursting, hasty footsteps were heard, and a ringing voice came from behind the door, mixed with chaotic knocking.
“Tuny!
Tuny!
Please let me in!” a very familiar voice.
Petunia flinched toward the door, but her injured knees gave way, and she fell onto the bed.
She looked out the window.
Lily was standing on the porch, impatiently shifting from foot to foot and fidgeting with the sleeves of her black uniform robes.
In the moonlight, her hair took on a pinkish silver sheen, and on her face was that very expression she wore when she had managed to brew the most difficult potion.
“Oh, please!
It’s very urgent!
I have something amazing here!
You have no idea!” The blood roared in Petunia’s ears, cutting off all sounds around her.
All she could hear was her sister’s excited voice.
What happened?
Why wasn’t she at Hogwarts?
What was she so excited about?
Petunia yanked the door open and froze on the threshold.
It really was Lily.
Ruffled, smudged, grinning from ear to ear.
“Tuny!” Her sister’s joyful shriek nearly deafened her.
“I’m so happy!
So happy!
You have no idea what happened!
Here,” she presented a small crystal vial, the kind she bought for her experimental potions.
There was indeed some liquid in it — the color was unidentifiable in the dark, but it was a little over half full.
“Severus and I were given detention because of those nasty Marauders!
And we were sorting through old books that were supposed to be thrown out.
And in one…
in one book, Tuny, I found a recipe!” Petunia stared at her with wide eyes, barely listening to what she was rattling on about, breathless with words.
She was trying to find even the slightest hint that this was another deception, only more skillful, but she couldn’t find any.
The appearance, the smile, the way she talked and gestured, even that charming childish restlessness, as if she was ready to start dancing at any moment and was only restraining herself — all of it was definitely her Lils.
Never mind what happened at that stupid school of hers.
Petunia suddenly realized she had missed her terribly.
She blinked the excess moisture from her eyes and was about to invite her little sister in, but she listened to her words: “I brewed it, Tuny!
A potion that can make you a witch!” Lily practically shouted, and her ringing voice echoed across the farm.
Then she made a pitiful face and whined: “Oh, come on!
Let’s go in, and you can drink the potion!
I didn’t brew it for nothing, did I?
Oh, Tuny, ple-e-ease!” Petunia, feeling a chill of fear spreading through her body, looked at her and couldn’t find any differences.
The bright, sunny color of her hair, the completely witchy eyes, the dimples in her cheeks when she smiled, the habit of fiddling with her skirt or dress with her fingers, and that wonderful pleading tone that worked on anyone the younger Miss Evans decided to use it on.
Even on Petunia herself.
Except that since last summer, when the holidays started, Lily hadn’t called Snape anything but by his surname.
Only “Snape.” If she wanted to express displeasure, “Mr.
Snape.” And if she wanted to sting, she used the mocking “Snivellus.” Petunia hadn’t been surprised to learn that that vile nickname had been invented by the idiots Potter and Black.
Although, that same summer, the word “idiot” was used less and less in reference to Potter when Lily told stories about various incidents at school.
She had the right smile, the right intonation, the right words.
But all these small details, which a simple observer wouldn’t notice, only a family member who had known her sister from the cradle would notice…
she wouldn’t forget.
“Tuny!” Lily stomped her foot.
“Let me in!
I’m getting cold!” She laughed lightly.
“It’s a potion, for goodness’ sake!
It has to be drunk according to the instructions: take this dose with warm milk.
And what milk here…
we need to heat it.” She tried to squeeze through the doorway, but Petunia spread her arms, blocking her path.
“Go away,” she said in a flat voice.
Lily’s face twisted in confusion.
“Tuny?” “I said go away.” Lily stared at her with a lost look, as if she didn’t understand what was happening.
And then her expression gradually changed, as if a mask was sliding off.
A greedy, hungry horror stared at Petunia from familiar green eyes.
They had changed color, from grassy green to a cold, emerald, snake-like shade.
“Clever girl,” the creature said in Lily’s voice, but now it was like a sharp knife scraping against glass.
“But it won’t help you.
You can’t hide forever.
Sooner or later, you’ll make a mistake, and then…” It showed its teeth in a predatory smile.
“I’ll be right there.” It leaned in and breathed cold into Petunia’s face.
The air around Petunia instantly turned to ice, her breath fogged, and a frost formed on her eyelashes.
The creature watched her reaction with clear satisfaction.
“When your protector falls asleep for good, I’ll come for you, girl.” And with a sharp pop, it disappeared.
Petunia slammed the door shut, threw the bolt, and, pressing her back against the door, slid to the floor.
She sat there for a long time, catching her breath, her heart pounding somewhere in her throat.
Then she got up, walked to the bed on stiff legs, and looked at the ghost.
He was lying still, not breathing, but even in his motionlessness, she felt strength and the promise of protection.
“Thank you,” she whispered, although she knew he couldn’t hear her.
She returned to the table, poured herself cold tea, drank it in one gulp, and opened the book again.
She needed to stay awake.
And she would stay awake.
No matter what.
The night was far from over.
Petunia was curious, of course, about what had happened to make her little sister change her mind so abruptly, but no matter how she pried, Lily remained silent.
She only said that Snape had done something unforgivable, that she was tired of fighting and no longer intended to turn a blind eye to his behavior.
When Lily Evans made up her mind about something, getting her to change it was impossible.
And she knew for certain that there was no way to turn a Muggle into a wizard.
No potions, no rituals, nothing.
Selling one’s soul to the devil was out of the question, but only because no one had bothered to summon Satan and ask his opinion on the matter.
Petunia took one slow step back from the threshold.
“What the hell are you?” she spat directly at the smiling face.
The Brute with Lily Evans’s face laughed, throwing its head back in a characteristic gesture, and the more it acted like her sister, the stronger Petunia’s certainty grew.
This was not her sister.
“It’s me, your little sister!
Don’t you recognize me?
You must be joking, Pet, right?
Your jokes are so funny, but not now!
Come on, let me in, right now!” she suddenly shouted.
But it didn’t try to cross the threshold.
Apparently, what they write in fairy tales is true.
Evil spirits must be invited into the house.
Petunia clenched her fists and snapped: “You’re not my sister.
She doesn’t know where I live.” For some reason, she didn’t want to call her sister by name.
Fairy tales always emphasized how important it was not to give names to evil spirits.
She intended to follow that advice.
“There’s no potion to make a Muggle a wizard.
She calls Snape ‘Snivellus.’ And she never, ever calls me ‘Pet’!
Be gone!” No sooner had she shouted these words than the face of Lily Evans slid off the brute like water, and a horrific, toothy monster hissed: “I see you.” And it vanished, dissolving without a trace into the darkness.
Petunia remained standing on the threshold, holding the doorknob with one hand while trying to calm her wildly pounding heart with the other.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, as if after a long exhausting run, and large drops of cold sweat trickled down her back.
Catching her breath, she closed the door, slid the bolt into its loops, and sank to the floor.
The vile hissing of ‘I see you’ continued to ring in her ears.
What would happen next?
Would the brute sink its claws into her throat next — and then what?
Honestly, in these few days she had endured more than enough fear.
Even though the ghost had turned out to be quite friendly, at first meeting it had scared her plenty.
And now this on top of everything… Petunia covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
She wasn’t a crybaby.
On the contrary, she always bore things stoically, no matter what happened, and sometimes couldn’t shed a single tear even when needed, which earned her a reputation among her peers as a dry and callous person.
But when it hit — like now, when there was too much fear — the tears finally came, and there was no stopping them.
Petunia wept bitterly, and the sound of her sobs would have moved even the dead.
Even the ghost, without waking, frowned anxiously in his sleep, and the fire, which had been drooping, revived and hummed something soothing.
After crying her fill, Petunia wiped her tears with her own T-shirt, blew her nose, and declared to the empty room, grim and resolute, so that even fear retreated for a moment: “I’ll show you all.
I’m Petunia Evans, damn it!”